Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,4

grief. She’d shed her tears, vented her anger, talked through her confusion.

She’d put her life back together, damn it.

So why did she feel so flat?

“Claire?” Audrey said tentatively.

Claire’s attention snapped back to her friend. “It’s my birthday today.”

“What?” Audrey’s voice was borderline outraged. “How could you not—”

“I wanted to celebrate alone,” Claire said quickly. At least she’d thought she had. “It’s just that . . . well, I was sitting here, feeling a little sorry for myself, and thinking about how eight new wrinkles popped up last night. And I was looking down at this little plain vanilla cupcake. And the thing is, Audrey, I picked that flavor. I went to the bakery with the intention of buying myself a birthday treat, and out of all the options, that’s what I selected. I think it’s the only one I saw. And now, I don’t know. I’m just wondering . . . am I boring, Audrey?”

Am I boring, and is that why Brayden went to find someone not boring? Someone like you?

She didn’t say it out loud, but she suspected Audrey heard the unspoken words, because her friend was quiet for a long time.

“Strawberry lemonade,” Audrey said.

“What?”

“Molly’s Cupcakes on Bleeker. They’ve got a bunch of fun flavors, but I was there last week, and strawberry lemonade is one of their summer features. It’s not wild. It’s a traditional flavor pairing, but it’s unexpected for cupcakes and it totally works. It’s sweet and tart and it sticks with you. It’s memorable.”

“Strawberry lemonade,” Claire said thoughtfully. “I like strawberries. And lemonade.”

“See! You’re not boring! You’re strawberry lemonade! Do you want to head down there right now? I can come over, we’ll grab a cab . . .”

Claire laughed. “I love the enthusiasm, but I think my days of going down to the Village on a Tuesday night are behind me. Especially considering I have a contractor coming by at seven tomorrow morning to give me a quote for the renovation.”

Audrey let out a tiny sigh of resignation. “Yeah, okay. This weekend maybe?”

Ordinarily, Claire would have nodded in agreement, relieved that her friend didn’t push. But hearing the complete lack of surprise in Audrey’s voice at Claire’s refusal affirmed Claire’s worst fears.

She wasn’t just boring. She was predictably boring.

Claire’s gaze flitted over the pile of generic birthday cards. The pale, lonely cupcake. The pile of uninspired swatches and neutral samples that indicated even her house renovation, a process that by its very nature signaled change, would somehow end up . . . the same. Her house would be more modern, yes, but if she stayed the course of white and off-white, it would be what everyone expected of her. Vanilla.

An urge washed over Claire, strong and unfamiliar, and as a lifelong rule follower, it took her a moment to register what she was feeling: rebellion.

She wanted to surprise people. She wanted to surprise herself.

“Actually, Aud?” She told her friend. “About that cupcake date. Let’s do it.”

“Now?” Audrey asked in surprise.

“I’ll be at your place in twenty. We can share a cab.”

“Yes! You’re sure though?”

“Absolutely,” Claire said. “I’ll see you in a few.”

Claire started to head toward the stairs to change her clothes but backtracked to the kitchen.

And tossed the vanilla cupcake in the trash.

Chapter Two

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7

At exactly six fifty-eight the following morning, Scott Turner slammed the door of his pickup closed, not really caring if he woke up any of the residents who lived on Seventy-Third Street. In fact, rather perversely, he hoped he did wake them up.

It wasn’t that he hated Upper East Siders. He just hated all people until he got his morning coffee. He hated especially that his rancid mood was his own damn fault. He’d been the one to agree to consider this job. He’d been the one who’d suggested the early morning meeting.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. To get anything done in August in New York City, early mornings were crucial unless you wanted to sweat your way through the day. Hell, it was already sticky, and they hadn’t even rounded the bend on 7:00 a.m.

But when Scott made the appointment with Claire Hayes, he hadn’t been factoring in a delayed flight from Seattle the night before, which had then prohibited him from restocking coffee.

To say that Scott was having regrets about doing his friend Oliver a favor was an understatement, but if this Claire Hayes woman had air-conditioning and coffee, all would be forgiven. Mostly.

As expected, Claire Hayes’s brownstone looked like every